


Fevered Dreams

by Halogalopaghost (Lartovio)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Fluff, Mabel takes care of her grunkle, Post Weirdmageddon, Post canon, this is total fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26141071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lartovio/pseuds/Halogalopaghost
Summary: Grunkle Stan is sick, but he's very good at taking care of himself. At least, in his own point of view. From where Mabel stands, he's a mess that needs some help.
Relationships: Grunkle Stan & Mabel
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	Fevered Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> I've been having HUGE writer's block since June, so this was really just a fluffy excuse to get back into it! So y'know. There's no plot.

Stan had lived a long, full life up to the summer of 2013. He'd been to countless countries, seen the inside of prisons in three, and got a glimpse or two into an entirely different dimension. He lived through disco, he taught a bear to drive, he taught himself physics, he tricked a million year old chaos demon into its own demise for goodness' sake, he had a full life! He just didn't expect it to end so soon.

"Stanford, brother, come closer," he groaned. He reached out his hand, withered with age, and pulled his brother in by the jacket lapels. "I see the light," he whispered dramatically.

Ford put a six-fingered hand on his brother's face and shoved it away, effectively freeing his coat and plucking the thermometer from his brother's mouth at the same time. "Stanley, your breath smells like death and tuna."

"Funny you should say that, I happen to have eaten a dead tuna for lunch." Stan sniffed noisily, forcing mucus back into the sinuses from whence it came. He had only been sitting up for a few minutes, but it seemed like that was enough to tap the barrel of snot that was his face.

"It would have been way more fun if you ate a live one," Dipper added.

Stan shrugged. "Significantly less tasty though."

"You still don't have a fever," Ford mumbled, almost to himself. His chin was nearly touching his chest as he squinted through the bottom of his glasses to read the fine print on the Sudafed box in his other hand.

Stan flopped back into his old yellow chair, clutching his chest. "To think" —his other hand shot up toward the ceiling— "a summer cold would do me in! Me, the hero of the world! Get a good look kids, this is the end!"

Ford viciously swatted his hand out of the air with all the loving kindness that only a sibling can give. "You'll live."

Dipper shifted on the carpet below, where he sat near Stan's slippered feet. "We'll remember you fondly Grunkle Stan."

Stan laid his head back for real this time, lightheadedness from the congestion in his head smacking him like an angry wave. "Hey, remember your promise that I get a bigger tombstone than Ford."

Ford "accidentally" stepped on his brother's foot as he made for the kitchen. Stan yelped, then chuckled. It was even deeper and cracklier than usual with the cold.

"I read a book one time where a girl got sick in the summer and her family wrapped her up in blankets and put her in front of the fireplace," Mabel said. Her fingers were deftly winding around yarn and needles as she knit up a Wendy-sized sweater. It would have a flaming axe emblazoned on the chest by the time she was done.

Stan and Dipper both waited (with mild concern) for her to finish that thought she started, but she never did. The click of her needles filled out the silence.

Ford swept back into the room with a glass of water in one hand, a can of diet Pitt in the other. "Yes, old approaches to medicine seem quite medieval when we look back on them now. The idea that an illness can be 'sweated out' is not entirely false, but can be incredibly dangerous. Especially for the elderly."

Ignoring Stan's sharp "HEY!", Mabel nodded sagely to agree. "What's the temperature that cooks the brain alive? 106 degrees?"

"107," Dipper confirmed.

"Sixer, I'm begging, stop letting the kids watch documentaries with you."

Ford only smiled in response, setting the drinks on the dino-skull tabletop and putting a few pills in Stan's waiting hand. "Are you sure you'll be alright down here tonight?"

After washing the pills down with Pitt, Stan grumbled something noncommittal.

Ford knew that was all he would get out of his brother, and honestly, he wasn't upset by it. If he learned one thing through all their months on the Stan O'War II, it was that neither of the brothers knew how to let themselves be taken care of. Stan would let him know if there was an emergency, and until then he would only pretend to be grumpy when Ford continued to check on him. It was a suitable arrangement for the time being.

"Alright kids, time for bed," he announced.

Dipper stood up and stretched. The kid had grown up like a shoot since they had last seen him over the holidays—his legs were too long for his body now.

Mabel quickly finished the row she was working on and packed her project into the soft tote bag it travelled in. Both of the twins together, like they'd been waiting for one another, attacked Stan with enthusiastic hugs. Dipper ruffed up his Grunkle’s soft white hair (turnabout is fair play, that's what Grandpa Shermie taught them) and Mabel kissed his scruffy cheek before switching to a stern look. 

"If you need anything, you shout. We'll leave the attic door open."

Stan laughed and patted her cheek affectionately. "Okay sweetie."

Ford hung back a moment, waiting until the kids had finished their extremely loud ascent up the stairs. 

Stan spoke first. "Check on 'em in an hour or so, would ya?"

"Sure thing. Now, are you sure—"

"Stanford I swear!" The threat went unfinished in Stan's stuffy-nosed irritation. "I've done this song and dance a million times, I know I'll sleep better sittin' up."

Ford put his hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright. Like Mabel said—"

"Oh for God's sake—"

Ford took a few steps backward before turning on his heel toward his old study. "Fine! I'm leaving!"

Finally left alone in the dark living room, Stan nestled down into the blanket provided for him. Dipper brought in a stool from the kitchen too, foreseeing Stan's want to put his feet up. It was kinda nice to have so many people so willing to take care of him...but it was also extremely annoying. Sometimes he didn't want to be helped, y'know? Sometimes it was okay to turn the lights off, get in bed, and just check out for a day or two. It always saved a few bucks to skip some meals, and whatever discomfort he felt in the moment didn't matter because he wouldn't remember it in a few days' time. On days when he needed to keep the Shack open, he'd just take slightly more DayQuil than recommended, wash it down with coffee, and crash as soon as the last tour group left. It worked, and he didn't like fixing things that weren't broken.

He pulled one arm out of the blanket to put a hand on the tabletop beside him, where a fluffy-covered scrapbook sat. The edges were darkened with grime and wear at this point, since the thing had been around the globe and back on a boat, but its contents were no less precious. The shack didn't seem to allow for as many little memory lapses as the Stan O' War II did, (which he hated to admit—but he really did consider the place home) but he still kept the scrapbook close by. Just in case.

* * *

Mabel was only barely conscious as she rolled over in bed in the attic, tugging the sheet up over her shoulders. She nestled her face into the pillows and threw an arm over Waddles.

Just when the world around her began to drift away into sleep, she snapped back to awareness. A door closed somewhere downstairs, and then she heard the tap turn on.

She sat up and listened for a moment. It was hard to hear anything over Waddles' snoring. Dipper, closer to the door than she was, hadn't stirred. As she listened and became more awake, she remembered why the attic door was standing open to begin with. Grunkle Stan was in the living room, instead of in his room below, sick.

A little begrudgingly, Mabel slid out of bed and nabbed the fuzzy blanket from the foot of it. It wasn't cold in the non-air-conditioned attic by any means, but it made her feel safer and more confident to walk alone through the yawning, creaky darkness of the shack. 

Downstairs, her worst suspicions were confirmed. Grunkle Stan's chair was empty, and the light inside the main floor bathroom was on. She stood outside the door for a moment, then knocked.

"Grunkle Stan? Are you okay in there?"

There was a brief grunt, followed by a slurred "Mmmable?"

"Yeah, it's me." She put her palm flat against the door and suppressed a yawn. "Do you need anything?"

Another old-man groan preceded the door's opening. The beam of the yellow bathroom light spilled across Mabel before she was ready, making her squint up at her Grunkle's bulky form. He leaned heavily on the doorframe with his own blanket around his shoulders, hunched over even more than he usually was.

"Mm not feelin' so good," he mumbled.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see a thin sweat on his brow and deep, tired lines etched into his face.

She took his hand in both of hers, her instincts telling her to hug the sickness right out of him. That hadn't worked earlier, though, and she doubted it would work then. His palm was clammy and his fingers were cool, but the back of his hand and his wrist were uncomfortably warm.

"I'm gonna get Grunkle Ford."

Stan tightened his fingers around her hand as she began to pull away. "No. Don't bother him."

"Grunkle Stan—"

"I'm okay pumpkin'." He gave her a smile.

Usually when Grunkle Stan smiled at her, she got warm-fuzzies in her chest like caterpillars were making a cocoon out of her heart. But this smile was thin, made out of chapped lips spread too tight across dentures he should have taken out before sleeping.

The sour smile faded quickly as Stan put a fist over his mouth and closed his eyes for a moment. That was the exact same look Dipper got when he was about to—

Grunkle Stan turned around just in time, and Mabel plugged her ears to keep out the puke sounds. She was a sympathetic puker, once upon a time. The Winter Stomach Flu Extravaganza of 2011 did a lot to curb that habit of hers though, and now she could almost clean up Waddles’ messes without puking, herself. Grunkle Stan was...a little bigger than Waddles.

Out of politeness or grossed-outedness, she couldn't be sure, Mabel waited in the hallway until she heard no more stomach churning sounds. She opened the door just a little bit as the toilet flushed.

Grunkle Stan was sitting on the yellow bath mat in front of the toilet, leaning against the wall with the blanket wrapped around him so tight, Mabel wasn't sure where blanket ended and Grunkle began. He didn't seem to notice that she was still there.

She disappeared for a moment, returning with a clean washcloth and the glass that Stan used for his dentures. She wet the washcloth, folded it carefully on his face, and held the glass up in front of him.

There was a little bit of working his jaw for a moment, then the teeth slid out and plopped into the cup. She held in her instinctive EWWWW and set the cup aside.

She touched her wrist to Grunkle Stan’s neck, like Mom has taught her, and hissed in a breath.

“You've got a fever.” She said it as if she were telling him he only had a day to live. “Grunkle Stan, I'm sure Ford won’t mind—”

"Mabel," he grumbled. The tone was somewhere between gruff and whiny, the latter of which Mabel didn't think she would ever hear from her Grunkle in a non-ironic setting. His eyes were closed again, face the only thing exposed under his blanket, and he looked so terribly sad there on the bathroom floor. It was a distinctly incorrect image, as Mabel was concerned.

Mabel found his hand among the blanket, then squeezed his fingers and gave his hand a tug. Seemingly too tired to put up a fight, Stan slowly let himself be dragged back to the living room. Mabel sat him down in the chair and while he adjusted his blanket so it would cover every shivering bit of him, she replaced the cold cloth on his forehead. After a quick run to the storage closet, she came back with a small paint bucket and made a point to show Grunkle Stan where she put it. “So you don't have to get up again,” she explained.

“ThankssMabel,” he slurred.

She ran off again, to the kitchen this time. Through no small feat of scaling the counter, she obtained a sleeve of plain chipackers, and one musty ginger ale. The emergency kit placed there for Dipper at the beginning of the last summer.

She presented these two things to Grunkle Stan, who mumbled about the theft of his teeth followed by the introduction of chipackers, maybe something else about the unfairness of the world.

Mabel measured out three ibuprofen in her hand. She watched Stan like a hawk while he begrudgingly gnawed on a cracker and took a few sips of the ginger ale. Reasonably satisfied he wouldn't upchuck again, she gave him the pills.

He took them without complaint. She flipped over the damp cloth.

“You're too good to your old Grunkle.” His eyes had closed again, but he was no longer shivering.

She placed a kiss on his forehead, just below the cloth. It didn't feel as hot as before. When she pulled away, she beamed at him. “I'm exactly the correct amount of good. I'm gonna sleep on the couch, just in case. Wake me up if you need anything."

"Hnnn," was his groaned response.

"Promise me."

His brow creased—maybe in frustration, she couldn't tell—and he sighed. "Promise."

She tucked herself into the old couch now stuck between the little sitting room and the living room; it had become a necessity as there were more and more butts to sit now. It was old and it smelled like mothballs and febreeze, but Mabel thought it just smelled like the shack—like home. She waited until Grunkle Stan was comfy, and then waited until he seemed to be resting.

She turned and nestled her face down into the cushions then, wrapping her blanket around her tightly. As Grunkle Stan's loud snores rattled the living room, she smiled and drifted back to sleep.


End file.
